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The flower is broken from its stem,
The ring has lost its only gem:
Oh! princely Claremont, wither'd be thy bowers;
Mock the self-loving fair—
Go, whisper in the ear of kings,
Cold, voiceless, joyless, motionless—)
Away, away! it is not meet
To view her in her winding-sheet:
A circling halo is her crown,
A halo of eternal light:
How mild her features seem, and yet how heavenly
THE MEMORY OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CANOVA.
WHERE is he now? an awful question! where?
Viewing angelic shapes more dazzling there
When he would dare create, what art alone
A Hebe, or a Grace without her zone,
Or all that poets dream of beauty's queen, in stone.
Whate'er of beautiful, high-minded Greece
And must that master-hand for ever cease
To mould those forms so graceful and so young,
Those forms, o'er which ideal loveliness
Is, as it were, by touch ethereal flung!
His delicate Hebe almost seems to move :
While beaming, like a twin-star at her side,
O! 'tis a super-human skill that turns
Sullies their charms; they are not of this earth, But pure as when the bards' conceptions gave them birth.
How o'er the sculptor's manly features play'd
When freedom quicken'd thought, and a soul-wakening clime.
Yet in Canova's mind were nursed those fine
Imaginings, that, but by few possest,
We call, adoring their results, divine,
Since those who have them are indeed most blest
Of mortal beings, far above the rest.
The poetry of sculpture must be caught
From heaven it gives a feeling unexprest When bodied forth, to those by art untaught: "Tis an ambrosial flame-the very soul of thought.